


we opened our eyes to a sunbeam

by neukolln



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:24:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neukolln/pseuds/neukolln
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basti catalogs their proximity, the sticky-warmth of their hands on each other, the insistent pressure from Lukas's kneecaps digging into his thigh, and then tries fervently to ignore it.</p><p>First time fic set after the 2005 Confederations Cup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we opened our eyes to a sunbeam

**Author's Note:**

> How has this been in the works since November? I'm not sure. This is a direct result of my obsessing over the possibilities of Lukas and Basti's first time. Please excuse Basti's muddled brain. In his defense, he's young but so very aware.
> 
> Title is a Goldroom lyric.

_June 2005_

Sometime during the evening, Basti loses sight of Lukas among the constellations of players and staff drifting around the restaurant at the farewell party. Basti isn't convinced they should be calling it a party when they're leaving with a medal that isn't gold, but they won today, _they_ scored, one-a-piece, and he’s happy in a way he can’t fathom. He’s been throwing back beers, easily and dangerously, making it hard for him to focus on any one thing, a considerable feat considering his attentions of late have been fully pervaded by this one dumb Kölner. 

He chews down a little on the brim of his beer bottle, his bottom teeth making it clink, takes another dizzying look around the room and decides that he isn’t drunk (well, not  _just_  drunk), that Lukas really has abandoned him here.

"Honestly, and that’s where we weren’t taking advantage of the space, right when Silva would move into the right...” Robert Huth drones on from beside him.

Basti feels the ache in his right temple, where he was caught by a rogue elbow earlier, start to buzz more intently. He lives for football, really, truly, but good lord, it’s the end of the season. 

“I’m with you, absolutely,” Basti lies. He presses his own drink into Robert’s hands. “Here, have some more,” he encourages, then he slinks away from the conversation in as discreet a manner as he can muster.

"That was impolite,” someone says into Basti’s ear when he sits down at the bar, hoping to be alone.

That ridiculous timbre is unmistakeable. Anyone else and Basti would have jumped, maybe kicked.

As it is, his body has been fully, irritatingly attuned to Lukas’s for one whole sexually frustrating year now. So all that happens is that his heart thuds quickly a bunch of times and a grin tugs at his lips.

“Where the fuck?” he asks breathlessly. 

Lukas sinks into the barstool next to Basti’s and lets his palm drag loosely over Basti's shoulder from where it was on his spine. He has an unnecessarily massive grin on his face and he's staring amusedly at Basti.

"What?" Lukas manages to ask around his smile. 

Basti feels the need to close his eyes. 

"Why are your teeth blinding me?" he says into the darkness, in the general direction of Lukas's face.

A couple of groping fingertips touch Basti's chin. They guide his face to the right with an indelicate push, at which he grunts irritatedly at.

"I'm here," Lukas says.

"Where the fuck were you?" Basti remembers to ask. He’s relieved Lukas will be able to understand him now. Not that it'll make this make any sense. His inner voice says  _you confuse the hell out of me_  with a too-dramatic flair, to himself or to Lukas, he doesn't know.

One of the fingertips on his face taps his right eye. 

"Can you open your eyes?" Lukas asks. "I feel like I'm talking to a sleeping person, or a dead person, or a sleeping dog.”

Basti opens his eyes so he can roll them.

"Better," says Lukas. His mouth is doing that funny thing it does when he's holding back a laugh. It usually makes Basti break. Now, though, Basti presses his lips together because he suspects Lukas is picturing him as a dog. Except his eyes are still intense and hooded, glued to Basti's face.

"Lukas, will you please just," he says. He lifts his hands and rubs at his hot cheeks. His stubborn, beer-muddled brain backtracks to  _confusing_.

"I've been here this whole time, genius," Lukas finally responds. "Maybe you should stop sleeping in public." He drags one of Basti's hands down and begins to inspect the side of his face.

"I was awake. What are you  _doing_." 

"Relax, I'm surveying the damage, looking out for what's mine, you know. That's all," Lukas says.

He turns his body around on the barstool so that he’s fully facing Basti, knees pressing into the side of his thigh. He nudges him in the ribs with the heel of one hand and continues to hold his wrist with the other. It's their average amount of touching-feeling, but with the words of ownership it feels as though Lukas is staking his claim.

"So? What’s your diagnosis then?" asks Basti, shoving down the urge to address  _what's mine_ and the other more problematic urges. He clears his throat because it feels dry. He needs to get another beer but he can't look away from Lukas, can't extract himself from his grasp, something that has become somewhat of a proclivity in his presence.

“Well, you’re disfigured, but it’s temporary. Purple isn’t a great color for you," Lukas replies. His voice is firm with feigned authority. “Don't play for Fiorentina."

Basti's nose wrinkles with a frown. "Fiorentina? I couldn't move to Italy. You'd miss me too much.”

Lukas smiles so hard Basti thinks he could count all his teeth. 

"No," he teases, drawing the word out, shaking his head minutely and bouncing a knee up and down so that it rubs against Basti’s thigh. "I change my mind. Go, please. I could stand to see less of your ugly face in the league. Could you imagine? Germany would be a safer place."

Basti jerks his wrist out of Lukas's grip and wraps his fingers, bruisingly, around the asshole's forearm.

Lukas fucking laughs.

“No, _no_ , Lukas. You're so," says Basti, feeling dizzy. He leans in, needing him to shut up, warningly repeats, "You'd miss me too much. Right?" he asks, needing to hear it.

It’s not at all often that Basti makes Lukas blush, the boy seemingly immune to embarrassment, but he manages to do it now. Cheeks turning a warm pink-red, Lukas replies with another steady “no,” lips quirked. His gaze drops to Basti's mouth for a halting second. He blinks and looks back up.

"You," Basti says, digging blunt fingernails into Lukas’s arm, "are a dirty liar." His nails scratch the surface of the skin a little from the frustration.

Lukas inhales and the thick muscle beneath Basti’s fingertips tenses. 

“ _I’m_ a liar?” asks Lukas, eyebrows raised. His hand that isn't trapped slides onto Basti's lower back.

Basti catalogs their proximity, the sticky-warmth of their hands on each other, the insistent pressure from Lukas's kneecaps digging into his thigh, and then tries fervently to ignore it. Lukas is so warm, too warm, _all the time_ , and the only other time Basti feels this much unchecked want is with a football at his feet and an open goal straight ahead of him.

“Yes, a damn liar,” he finally manages to say in response to Lukas's question. He’s starting to sound repetitive, but this is how they push each other.

Lukas snorts, then cocks his head thoughtfully.

“Fine, okay,” Lukas concedes. He licks his bottom lip, murmurs, "I'd miss you."

Basti's heart thumps insistently against his ribcage.

Then, for some godawful reason, of all the possible appropriate responses ( _thanks,_ friend _, I'd miss you too_ ), the only thing his traitorous unfiltered mouth thinks to say is:

“Prove it.”

Lukas doesn't say anything for the longest five seconds. He searches Basti's eyes earnestly like some sort of nice-guy detective. Basti begins to feel terrified that he's about to discover this horribly misplaced infatuation. It’s reflected there all over his idiotic face.

“You're drunk,” is what Lukas concludes. All that he concludes.

“Well, that’s not the secret,” says Basti.

Lukas looks at him like he's crazy. Basti thinks he must be. He lets go of Lukas’s arm and shoves both of his hands, palms down, onto the bar top then stares at them. He thinks they look mighty useless without a drink in them, now that they aren’t all over his teammate.

“Hey. Can we—should I—do you want me to help you up to your room?” Lukas asks.

“No, no, no,” Basti protests immediately. He looks back up at Lukas.

This has happened before, Lukas helping him get back to his hotel room or apartment when he's had a little too much to drink. That's not what he wants. He knows Lukas means well, because he’s a goddamn saint, but—not tonight.

Tonight is for something else, some other as-of-yet-undetermined alternative.

“I want to stay here and get another beer,” he says clearly.

The best way for Basti to describe Lukas’s reaction is that it mimics the look he had on his face on Saturday, when their team fucked it up against Brazil and Basti watched, suspended and powerless, from the sideline. Lukas's body language after the fact, his chin an inch from his chest and his eyes darting apologetic glances at their teammates, spoke clearly to Basti. He hadn’t done enough.

His eyes are saying this now, too, inexplicably.

“Okay,” says Lukas with a smile, forced. “I’m going, then.”

Basti is busy simultaneously trying to figure out Lukas’s face and viciously hating the idea of Lukas ever needing to feign happiness, so it takes for a second for it to register that he actually wants toleave.

That is absolutely-fucking-not what Basti meant.

“Waitwaitwait. Hey, no, wait, yes,” he says.

Lukas hasn’t moved a muscle.

“Okay, my room,” confirms Basti, out of ideas.

The whole way out of the restaurant, through the courtyard, through the lobby of the hotel, and into the elevator, Lukas doesn’t touch or speak to him. It feels incredibly silly, having him silently escort him like this when Basti's mostly capable of transporting himself.

“You should at least be helping me walk or something,” Basti thinks aloud when they're stood face-to-face, staring at each other from across the span of the elevator, their bodies mirror images except for Lukas's arms folded across his chest.

Lukas's eyes travel down to Basti's legs and his eyebrows rise. 

“We're 85 percent of the way there and your legs have been working this entire time,” he says pointedly. 

“Oh,” retorts Basti. "My apologies, Podolski. I didn’t know you were a match statistician."

Lukas bursts out laughing, too loud. His arms fall to his sides.

“You’re such a little shit,” he tells Basti. It's hooked onto the end of one of his chuckles and Basti drinks it all in, allows a grin to reclaim his face. Lukas beams right back. A second later, he's pushing himself off the elevator wall, crossing the space between them and enclosing Basti's hand in his own.

“Come on, _hase_ ,” he says. He tugs on Basti unceremoniously, in sync with the doors opening.

“You have to stop calling me that,” Basti says as they enter the hallway. Lukas doesn’t actually use the pet name all too liberally, peppering it in at rare, random times. Most of them are untenable—a second before Basti beats him at FIFA, once when he was handing him a bib before a seven-a-side—all of them make Basti’s skin crawl.

“I like calling you that.”

“It isn’t accurate.”

“Even now?” asks Lukas, half-jumping onto his back, a reversal of Basti’s jump on him earlier that day, and shoving his fingers against the back of his head. “Now that you have rabbit ears?”

“Shit, Poldi,” Basti gasps, bending over. He tries to tug Lukas’s arm off his chest. “You’re fucking heavy. You need to lay off the chips.”

Lukas laughs breathily into his neck.

“Carry me to your room,” he challenges.

Basti hooks his hands under Lukas’s knees and readjusts him. He wonders for the thousandth, probably millionth, time this year how everything in his life led up to this moment.

“What if someone catches us like this? Micha?” he asks because he can’t think of what to say. He takes the first few steps toward his room with Lukas on his back, easily.

“I’d tell him to go fuck himself,” replies Lukas matter-of-factly as his arms squeeze the air out of Basti’s chest.

Basti laughs at the thought of Lukas saying any of that to his precious captain.

“You’d quit football before you showed Ballack how rude you actually are.”

Lukas slips down Basti’s body a little. He wriggles back up and pushes his nose into Basti's hair.

“I would do it to protect your honor,” he says into his skin.

“I'm a loser, a drunk loser, giving _you_ a piggy-back ride,” Basti grunts, heart pounding, starting to feel Lukas's weight in his knees as they approach the door. “How much honor could I possibly have?”

Lukas doesn't respond so Basti lets him go. His legs slide off his waist and their solid weight drags the waistband of Basti’s shorts down his hipbones by a few inches.

He’s milked every possible last second now.

He braces himself for the coolness that invariably comes with separating from Lukas, prepares for the approaching goodbye, the _goodnight, Schweini_ , and feels a bit impossible about it because he’s lived and breathed Lukas for a solid month now but it still only felt like the prologue.

“Hey,” says Lukas.

He doesn’t step away. He stands there, chest and stomach to Basti’s back, arms awkward around his neck like he doesn’t want Basti to go anywhere but doesn’t know a better way to keep him there.

Basti furrows his brow, opens his mouth, ready to laughingly, despairingly say something about their position, about how he can feel every quick, heavy thump of Lukas's heart against this spot just below his shoulder blade. But then Lukas messily kisses the back of his ear, the spot below that, the line of his shoulder where his arms have displaced Basti's shirt and Basti forgets every word of every language other than:

“ _Lukas_.”

“Why can't I stop thinking about you?” Lukas breathes, his grip tightening.

Basti goes completely still.

“What?” he asks and feels.

It’s a miracle he can say anything because the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins have seemingly swapped.

"What what what?”

“Shit, _fuck me_ , Schweini,” Lukas says on an exhalation that makes Basti’s head hurt. “Basti,” he corrects.

He holds the curves of Basti's shoulders and turns him around forcefully. He has this look that Basti’s overloaded brain scrabbles to comprehend, this falling look.

“Bastian,” Lukas corrects again, somber, like he's trying to rehearse. “I’m—”

“You want me to fuck you?” Basti blurts stupidly.

It’s impulsive; he’s an asshole. He winces at Lukas guiltily because his no-good, piece-of-shit mouth is going to get him punched in the face.

But Lukas doesn’t say anything. The punch doesn’t come.

What happens instead is the bridge of Lukas’s nose gets very red and his eyes get very big, making them bluer somehow, even under the dim hallway lights, and,

 _Whatthefuck_ , Basti feels like something inside him is going to break.

“Lukas,” he says, stepping into him, needing air, needing, “Lukas, I have to kiss you now and if that's not what you want you have to stop me, you have to say something right now,” he warns, glares even.

But Lukas continues to say nothing at all.

But when have they ever needed to say things? realizes Basti abruptly.

He thinks fleetingly about Lukas on the grass, looks at his stupid, open face in front of him now, presses closer and tentatively kisses his jawline, the corner of his lips, his mouth, and christ, finally.

Lukas makes a sound that falls between an _ugh_ and an agreement. There’s a hint of space between their mouths and a handful of deafening milliseconds. Then, Lukas tilts his head minutely and closes Basti’s top lip between his own, inaccurately, and the sudden heat weakens Basti’s limbs in a completely paralyzing, completely new way.

He swings an arm around Lukas’s neck to keep himself upright, has to. He kisses him back, opens his mouth up to Lukas, letting the tip of his tongue slip against Lukas’s teeth and then his tongue.

They kiss hard but not for long. Soon Basti’s problematic mind is kicking into high gear again and he finds himself thinking about how perfectly their mouths are fitting together despite the slight disjointedness, how right Lukas tastes, and. How long could they have been doing this?

He tries desperately to hold back his grin because he really wants to keep kissing Lukas, really, for a long time, but he can’t. He can’t do anything reasonable around Lukas.

“Stop smiling,” Lukas mumbles against Basti’s lips.

The intimacy of it—the sensation of Lukas speaking warm, wet words into his mouth. Basti’s chest fills with something indefinable but so-fucking-good.

He smiles even harder.

“Schweini _, stop_ ,” insists Lukas, but then he’s laughing. Then they’re both gasping incredulous laughter between kisses.

“This is the worst idea,” says Basti, pulling back, breathing unevenly.

He’s delighted when Lukas follows him, eyes on his mouth. Lukas’s hands, which had been curling in Basti’s shirt up until now, travel down his sides and settle on his hipbones.

“I know. You’re impossible to kiss,” says Lukas. He nudges Basti back until his ass hits the door and he’s caged. “When all I want to do is kiss you,” he adds, shyly.

And just like that, Basti’s hunger eclipses his joy, sudden and overwhelming.

“Shut up,” he says weakly, wondering why Lukas has apparently been holding out on him. He digs his fingernails into the short, spiky hair at the base of Lukas’s head and tugs him in indelicately, closing the space between their mouths again.

There isn’t a trace of laughter between them this time. Lukas slides his lips over Basti’s with candid urgency, threading his arms around him so that they’re trapped between the door and Basti’s back.

They don’t battle for dominance; they take turns with the upper hand. It’s almost-too-seamless, almost too much like the game. Basti bites and licks at Lukas’s bottom lip until he gives in to him again.

“Good,” he murmurs. Better. So good. He swallows down whatever Lukas responds, something that starts with “I —”. He doesn’t care. He maps Lukas’s mouth with his tongue and discovers these new little parts of him, which he feels a strange despair about because he thought he knew everything there was to know about Lukas, his good and bad, every quirk of his lips, every agitated line of his shoulders.

He drags his fingers down Lukas’s back heavily and doesn’t remember to hesitate when he pulls the back of Lukas’s shirt up and splays his palm against the hot arch at the base of his spine like he’s wanted to do for a thousand years.

He never could have imagined (and he imagined a lot, with a heavy dose of shame) the sound that this would elicit from Lukas, the low pleased hum in his chest pressed tightly enough against Basti’s that Basti can feel the sound reverberate against the inside of his own ribs.

Want pools so heavily in Basti’s stomach that he sinks back a little, that his mouth goes a little slack and he needs to hook his ankle over the back of Lukas’s calf roughly for leverage, to keep from sliding all the way down the door and landing ass-on-the-floor, a gross pile of needy twenty-year-old.

Stupidly, he doesn’t realize until Lukas downright growls, he growls his _name_ , jesus, nobody else will satisfy Basti again, that his little leg maneuver opened up his hips and made his very evident want very obvious against Lukas’s lower stomach.

He goes nervously still (other than the heaving of his chest. That he won’t be able to control for days).

This is it; it’s all out there now, his stupidity, he’s out there.

And maybe he’s a little slow on the uptake, maybe it’s the lingering booze in his stomach, but it only just now hits Basti in an odd, hazy, out of body way what’s happening. That he kissed Lukas, that they’re making out in the middle of a hotel hallway in Leipzig, what the fuck, that _his dick is on Lukas’s stomach_ , what the fuck.

Basti is tugged out of his snowballing incredulity by the sensation of Lukas pushing so close to him his body is pinned to the door. Their hipbones knock together uncomfortably. But even that isn’t close enough, apparently. Lukas grinds forward, leaving not a whisper of air between them.

Basti, slightly surprised, knocks his head back into the door at the first hard press of Lukas’s erection against him.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Lukas into the tendon of Basti’s neck, earnest as all hell. “I just really.”

“No, fuck no,” says Basti on a moan he has to hold back, ignores the diffusion of pain through his lip from his own bite. He’s busy thanking the footballing deities for thin training shorts, trying not to pass out. His hands, which sure as hell haven’t left the bare expanse of Lukas’s back, climb higher and press into his shoulder blades weakly. He feels the bones and muscles shift as Lukas searches, squirms for friction.

“Your hands are cold,” notes Lukas, unfocused.

Basti gasps out a laugh, then “kiss me.”

Lukas kisses his neck, which is not. But. Basti’s dick gets impossibly harder because Lukas’s mouth is dangerous and so sweet. And because Lukas’s inexperience shows a little in the stutter of his hips and it wrecks Basti. He hikes his foot up to the back of Lukas’s knee, having lost all shame. Lukas reads him automatically. He slips a hand under Basti’s ass, tilting his hips toward him. Like they’ve done this a hundred times.

“Oh god, yeah, right there,” Basti says, rocking up. His face burns.

Lukas kisses an erratic line up Basti’s neck.

“Basti,” he says, shaky.

“Never stop saying my name,” says Basti.

Lukas repeats it with an edge of amusement, a bigger edge of need, and captures Basti’s mouth. His fingers low on Basti’s ass dig in harder, keeping him in place as he ruts into him.

“Mmph,” Basti grunts desperately. He doesn’t think Lukas quite knows what he’s doing to him; he can barely fathom it himself. He's overwhelmed by the line of Lukas’s crotch, rubbing flush but not-quite-precise against his dick, and the pressure of his hand on his ass sliding dangerously closer. He feels himself leak into the cotton of his briefs and stifles another groan, vaguely wondering when he got so obscene.

“Is this—is this okay?” Lukas asks, even as he presses ever closer, as his free arm tightens around Basti’s waist and traps more heat between them. “I’ve never, ah, done this.”

Basti’s heart feels like it’s going to shatter.

“Lukas, shut up,” he whines. There’s only so much sensation he can hold in his body at once and it’s running through him now, from his head to his toes, about to burst out of his skin. He used to think he wanted Lukas too much, now he laughs helplessly at himself because formerly-too-much feels microscopic compared to what’s filling his chest and head and hands and stomach now.

“Hey,” Lukas says—he sounds _concerned_ for Basti, jesus—and kisses him again.

Basti goes to thread his arms around Lukas’s neck but they get tangled in his shirt because he forgot it was in the way. He tries to pull it off then, impatient.

“Basti, wait,” Lukas says against his lips with a smile that Basti feels more than sees. His fingers grope at Basti’s hip and slip into the pocket of his shorts.

“What are you doing?” Basti demands to know with the last of the air left in his lungs.

“Room,” says Lukas with a glimmer of impatience, rooting around.

“Oh,” says Basti. _Oh_. And. Here outside is excusable, explainable, a brief lapse of judgment. There inside can’t be reversed.

But all Lukas says is, “I know,” he pecks Basti’s cheek, and Basti thinks he underestimated him.

He’s so busy reveling in his best friend’s forwardness in bed that he forgets he’s being pick-pocketed until Lukas is holding a keycard up to his face.

“You’d make a really hot thief,” Basti admits.

Lukas bites down on his lip, on what looks like a more-than-faint hint of a smirk there, and makes a sound of exasperation that Basti instantly hates that he adores.

The lock is just behind Basti’s hip, so Lukas has to push him to the side to get the door unlocked. He fumbles with the keycard, frowns down at it in concentration until it works. And then he has to step into Basti to push the door open.

“The way you open doors is indecent,” Basti complains weakly.

Lukas’s eyes, bright, catch Basti’s. His smirk widens into a smile.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Nothing. I don’t know, you,” Basti says, drowning in Lukas’s affection.

Lukas splays a hand on Basti’s sternum and pushes him into the room. They don’t get very far after that, just to the desk. Basti drags Lukas into him, thinking hazily that he needs the heat of him, thinking _before you change your mind_. His hand curls around the back of Lukas’s neck. Their foreheads and noses bump together.

“I’m going to,” Lukas says, slipping his hand into Basti’s shorts.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Basti says, squeezing his eyes shut.

Lukas’s grip is a little too hard and Basti bucks into it, helpless. He’s slick enough, embarrassingly, that his dick slides against the heat of Lukas’s palm easily and he’s wrecked enough that the climax builds low inside him. He has to cling to Lukas’s shoulders as Lukas establishes a steady enough rhythm with his hand; there’s no other support and Basti’s knees and ankles have never felt this useless.

“You’re—” Lukas trails off, his voice doing a rasping thing Basti has never heard, the pad of his thumb dragging over the sensitive tip of Basti’s dick, his nose pressing into Basti’s cheek. “You feel—”

Basti shudders and comes messily all over his underwear and Lukas’s hand.

“Fuck,” Lukas groans.

“Lukas,” Basti says, ragged, thrusting into the sticky circle of Lukas’s fingers. “ _Lukas_.”

Every part of him is shaking. He inhales unevenly into his aching lungs and feels his heart pound in his stomach.

“Basti, shit, that’s so, that’s so good,” Lukas says like a revelation against the corner of his lips.

Basti tries to regain control of his breathing, his hips, and his face begins to get hot, but Lukas doesn’t give him the chance to feel any shame. He slides his hand out of Basti’s shorts, shoves his hips into the wall—were they always this close? Where was the wall when Basti was about to melt into the floor?—.

Lukas says, “you’re _so_ ,” and kisses him.

“Mmgh,” says Basti, letting Lukas lick into his mouth. He can taste the desperation on his tongue and it thrills him. He curls one hand into the fabric of Lukas’s shirt at the small of his back, drags the other down to his ass and slides his thigh between Lukas’s legs.

Lukas chokes out a “fuck” against Basti’s lips and jerks against him. He pulls away from the kiss to press his forehead into Basti’s shoulder, breathing erratic and hot against the fabric of his shirt, the hard line of his dick rubbing almost bruisingly into Basti’s thigh. Basti pulls him closer, wanting to give him more but not knowing how, hoping this is enough.

He tilts his head toward Lukas. He doesn’t care that the angle is awkward and that they’re both a little sweaty now. He kisses Lukas’s ear and memorizes how the muscles of his lower back move and tense under his hand as his thrusts grow more frantic.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” admits Basti, hot against Lukas’s ear, and then frantically wonders where the fuck that came from. _What the fuck are you doing_. But Lukas whines into his shoulder, his fingers dig bruises into Basti’s hip, and he comes. And it feels. Basti feels fresh curls of desire low in his stomach and desperation in his blood. He cups the back of Lukas’s neck as Lukas’s hips jerk against him, until he comes to a stop, and then it’s just the heaving of their chests together in the silence, the sticky press of their bodies.

Lukas groans.

“Basti,” he says. “Basti, Basti.”

He’s trembling against him, but when Basti pulls back to check, to ask if he’s okay, he’s smiling.

“What are you smirking about?” Basti asks. “And what what what.”

“I don’t know,” breathes Lukas. He’s still panting. Basti feels the urge to put both his hands on his chest but he refrains, uncertain.

“Hang on,” says Lukas. He pulls away, pats Basti’s cheek and disappears down the hallway.

Basti blinks and then when Lukas doesn’t reappear after a second, he stumbles over to the bed, hits the mattress knees first and spreads onto it. He doesn’t know whether to be surprised a few minutes later when Lukas comes back into the room and perches on the edge of the bed, on the side Basti is facing.

Basti peeks up at him.

“Can we do that again?” Lukas asks earnestly, a pair of red blotches high up on his cheeks, visible in the light of the lamp that Basti forgot to turn off earlier.

Basti laughs, incredulous, tilting his face into the covers. He should’ve bet Lukas wouldn’t be the type to leave after a one night stand.

“Yeah,” he says into the mattress. “ _Yes._ But first be a proper gentleman and come to bed with me.”

“I am in bed with you,” Lukas says in exasperation, but he crawls closer until they’re almost nose to nose.

“Good,” Basti mumbles, throwing a haphazard arm over Lukas’s waist.

Later, they’ll fight their way under the covers when Basti wakes up with cold hands and feet and grumbles unconsciously about it until Lukas wakes up too. Lukas will complain, but only halfheartedly. They’ll find each other when Lukas reaches across the space between them, searchingly, and finds Basti’s hand, palm-up.

He’ll entangle their fingers and then their legs and Basti will wake up needing to kiss him. He’ll sleepily ask “can I?” because this is new, Lukas is ephemeral, Basti knows it even when he’s half-aware, and Lukas will beat him to the punch.

Later, Basti will tell his heart to shut up for one second.


End file.
